"Hymn For the Missing"
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harry Potter. Nor do I own the lyrics of the song, Not Alone by Red.
Author's Note: Hi, I know it's been a long time since I've updated anything, but I've been having a lot of different activities distracting me. Now that I've started a number of different stories, I can finally start updating again!
Your heart is full of broken dreams
Just a fading memory
And everything's gone but the pain carries on
Lost in the rain again
When will it ever end
The arms of relief seem so out of reach
But I, I am here
Silence. That was all that remained. In a battlefield of blood and carnage, no single thing moved. All was in the clutches of Death, who had claimed and claims all.
All, that is, save one. Even as the as the smoke of burning fires settled like smoke on the grounds of Hogwarts, the awesome sight of the remains of the biggest battle the wizarding world had ever seen, from beneath a body something moved.
So Fawkes the phoenix saw. As a phoenix, the magnificent red-gold bird was gifted with courage, intelligence, loyalty, and an immortal life. He had been in the battle and helped in his way, overrun as Hogwarts had been by Voldemort and his followers. All had died, except for Voldemort himself, who had escaped unscathed and untouched.
From Fawkes' mouth there came a low, utterly mournful cry, the sound of his sadness echoing amongst the surrounding mountains. Who was it that lived? Fawkes's own companion, Albus Dumbledore, had fallen during the fighting, vanquished by the Dark Lord himself. But there was still hope, if one of the Light had managed to survive.
Perhaps it was the phoenix's cry that managed to do it, but finally, painstakingly clawing his way back to consciousness, Harry Potter opened his eyes to find a fallen body on him. Moving sore, aching limbs, he shoved it off him-
And abruptly froze. Hermione's face looked back up at him, utterly still, stained with blood, cut, scratched, and bruised, her sightless brown eyes staring up at the stars twinkling in all their cold beauty, a mix of desperation and determination in her expression. All he remembered was battling a couple of Death Eaters and defeating them; hearing his name called; turning to find Bellatrix Lestrange behind him, her wand raised, ready to strike. He had not had time to defend himself before the Killing Curse had been cast his way-
But then a bushy brown head of hair had bounded in front of it, taking the curse for him. Shock had prevented him from taking in the sight as the body as had fallen onto him, driving him to the ground. But now, however, he was perfectly aware of just who had died for him, and denial had him shaking his head in disbelief, because there was absolutely no way that what he was seeing was real; Hermione could not be dead, the last person he had had could not have left his side now, he couldn't be alone.
But she did not move; did not blink and slowly focus her gaze on him, and nor did she speak like she had during their years of hiding, and the certainty of his denial crumbled. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised a shaking hand and gently closed her eyes, knowing that this would be the last time he'd ever see them-
And something inside of him broke. Perhaps it was his heart, but he barely recognized it anymore. Hermione had been the one holding the broken pieces of it together, but now she was dead, gone to a place he could not recall her from, and she had taken a piece of him with her. He had already lost so much- Ron, the entire Weasley family, Dumbledore, everyone he had ever cared about; they had been hunted down by Voldemort, one by one, murdered for entertainment. Now Hermione was dead, dead from a curse meant for him, that he should have died from. Instead someone else… He wanted to curse and rage at Hermione's stubbornness, at her instincts to protect a friend, but he couldn't. He couldn't curse a friend's memory, not one who had died in such a way. Slowly he wiped at the bitter but utterly silent tears that had been steadily falling down his dirt-streaked face, but he did not try to stop them. What was the use in doing so?
It had started to rain before he realized it. Weather paid no mind to the petty problems of the mortals who inhabited the earth, but for this one time it seemed to reflect the emotions of this one lone survivor: rain began to pelt the ground in great sheets until rivers ran like tears upon the blood-soaked earth.
In that time of bleak despair, Harry might have taken his own life, unable to bear the grief or guilt, had it not been for Fawkes, who swept down upon him, gazing with black, caring eyes at the young man who sat unmindful of anything around him. Opening his beak, he let out a single quivering note of comfort and question that abruptly stopped the lad's tears and caused him to look over at the magnificent bird.
"Fawkes?" Harry breathed, all of his attention now riveted upon the only living thing besides himself. With the rain pelting down, soaking him clear to the skin, he slowly but gracefully crept over to the phoenix, determined not to look at any of the bodies' faces as he did so. He couldn't believe his life- life, risen from the ashes of death and destruction. Never before had he fully understood this imagery of the amazing power of the phoenix.
"Harry Potter."
The voice caused him to jump, his nerves tight from grief and plain surprise, and for a moment he looked around for the source of the voice he had heard. Finding none, he turned back to Fawkes. "You can talk?"
Fawkes bowed his head once. Indeed, said the voice, but it was spoken only in Harry's mind, a soothing, golden voice that gave strength to continue on. I speak only to my master, or in absolute need. You need help, Harry Potter.
Harry looked at him numbly. "Why do I need help?" he asked bitterly. "Voldemort's killed everyone I ever cared for. What do I need help for?"
"Because to die now would be dishonoring all those who died for you," Fawkes replied simply.
The answer served, and it sufficiently allowed Harry pause as his conflicting emotions waged their own war deep in his gut. His grief and guilt was still so great that he was sure it was burning whatever was left of his heart, but was what Fawkes said enough reason to keep on living? Of course it is, his mind said softly. Wouldn't dying now, ending his own life, make all the others' deaths in vain?
He was broken, but he was still strong. And although alone and grieving, the fact still remained that Harry Potter was a very stubborn person, whether he needed to be or not. Fawkes's words were all that was needed to allow him to bring that to the surface. He had a goal for now- to seek shelter, protect himself so the others could perhaps find some peace.
But where could he go? He didn't know if Voldemort thought he was dead or not, he might considering that he had left without double-checking. Of course, the snake-faced bastard might have left Harry alive on purpose, as a taunt that said nothing Harry cared for was safe. He should have learned that lesson years earlier, when Cedric Diggory and Sirius died…
Sirius. And as his thoughts drifted to his godfather, dead these past eleven years, he realized that he did have one place where he could be safe. Grimmauld Place, the house of the Black family. His home now, passed down to him from Sirius before the start of his sixth year at Hogwarts.
He came to realize that he was shivering, and that it was still raining. Fawkes was drenched, and Harry wondered if he would still be able to fly. "Do you want to come with me?" he asked softly. He knew Dumbledore was dead, and he wasn't sure what a wizard's familiar did if its master died.
Fawkes looked up at him with liquid black eyes. "I would be honored to go with you, harry Potter."
Harry stood then, tall and intimidating, gently grabbed the phoenix, and placed it upon his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he made his way back to where Hermione lay. Looking gingerly around her, he spied his holly wand, miraculously still intact. His hand brushed hers as he reached for it, however, and the unexpected contact brought tears to his eyes again. The coldness of her skin frightened him, but this had to be his goodbye, his final farewell, and he gripped her hand.
"Thanks," he whispered. He had the impulse to kiss her, like he had before the battle had begun, but he decided not to. He wanted their final kiss to be shared by both of them, when they still had hope for tomorrow. He stood again, looking around, wishing he could bury her, unable to stand the thought of leaving her here alone…
'Do you want her to be protected from scavengers, Harry Potter?" Fawkes asked softly.
Harry nodded, unable to speak.
"I can do so."
Harry looked over at the red-and-gold slowly, frowning. "How?" he asked in a mutter- it was the loudest his voice would get. "It's raining, and flame-"
"Phoenix flame is not like regular fire," Fawkes explained gently. "And burning those who died has been a way of honor in many cultures. You will not be dishonoring her."
For a long moment, Harry stood looking down at the body of his close companion. He wished with his whole being and then some that she had not died, but what was was, and as Dumbledore had once said, 'No spell can reawaken the dead.' How he wished that there was one that could. He looked around at the carnage, the bodies drenched in rain, then back at the phoenix. There was nothing else that could be done. "All right," he said softly. "Only…" and here he paused for a moment, considering, "only, let it engulf the rest of them."
Fawkes's liquid eyes pierced him again. Even the Death eaters, Harry Potter?" he asked curiously.
Harry nodded jerkily. Even the Death Eaters. Although possessing no love for Voldemort's followers, and hating a few of them with everything he had, he could not allow their bodies seized by the Ministry to be ridiculed and displayed like trophies. He did not hate them so much that he would allow that to happen. He was not that cruel.
So Fawkes, using the unique flames of a phoenix, caught Hermione's robes on fire, brilliant reddish flames that burned brightly and boldly despite the pouring rain. Unable to watch, Harry turned away, placed Fawkes on his shoulder again, and turning on the spot, Disapparated away from the battlefield that had become his Hell.